


Sensual Reality

by sburbanite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Meteorstuck, Sexuality Issues, borderline homophobic language, selfcest, things start to get weird after two and a half years on a space rock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7838806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave has been having...uncomfortable feelings for his best bro. He's determined to ignore them until a Dave arrives from the future to suggest an alternative way of dealing with things. Let the experiment commence!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“This is the most flagrant abuse of time-travel in the history of paradox space.” 

“You know it. It’s lucky we’re god-knows-where in the behind-the-scenes-verse. Sloppy makeouts with your future self has gotta be a timeline-dooming offense.” 

The other Dave, Future Dave, flashes a quick, nervous grin your way. There’s no fucking reason for _him_ to be nervous, you think, ‘cause it’s not like some douche in a cape showed up in his room ten minutes ago with an ironic long-stemmed red rose and then proceeded to stand there staring dumbly at his feet. 

You’d tried to interrogate him, to find out what the fuck could possibly go so wrong to doom the most blissfully boring place you’ve ever lived. Images of rainbow blood-splatters against metal had flashed through your mind, but the other you just shook his head and waved his hands furiously. 

“No, no, dude, brakes on. Park your ass in first class ‘cause you’re here for the long haul and the in-flight entertainment is gonna be something special. Fasten your seatbelt, pay attention to the safety briefing and prepare for the ride of your life; when we reach cruising altitude your air steward will be moving about your cabin with a one-time offer to join the mile-high club.” 

You’d just stared at him. He sounded like an idiot and he looked worse, turning bright red beneath the awesome force of the patented Strider deadpan expression. You suddenly knew why you’d never spoken to yourself during all of the mobius-double-timeloop manoeuvres you pulled back in your session. Shit like that sounded like ice cold AJ in your head, but turned into lukewarm piss when you heard it from the outside. 

“What,” had been your reply, keeping things simple for once. The other Dave had responded by snapping the rose in half and throwing it haphazardly in the direction of the trashcan. Without it in his hands he seemed to get some of his composure back. 

“Man I dunno why I thought it would be funny or ironic or whatever to turn up with a goddamn rose. Just, y’know a guy’s first actual alive kiss should be special and what's more cliche cheesy romantic than that? Seemed appropriate somehow since cliche fucking romance is kinda why I'm here in the first place.” 

If you thought that watching yourself trying to put on a cool facade was bad, somehow this was even worse. It's not as if you never rambled to yourself, that shit was your bread and butter since this rock was mostly fucking empty, creepy corridors and you hated every second of being alone in places that weren't your room, but it was weird watching yourself do it. Karkat was right, it was distracting. It had taken a few seconds to stop analysing your personal flaws long enough for the actual words to sink in, but boy howdy once they did you’d been surprised. 

“First kiss? Dude, what the hell? Are you seriously telling me I am so desperate in the future that I decide to booty call my former self? That is sick, man. I'm a delicate virgin flower, quaking in my excessively lacy nightgown at the very idea.” 

Dave had laughed, a little half-silent snort. You’d been taken aback at the sight of a genuine smile lighting up your own face. 

“Fuck, have we been watching too many of Karkat's movies or what? If I have to watch another Troll Jane Austen quadrant foursquare shitstorm I'll fucking smother myself under a mountain of puppet ass.” 

You’d both laughed then, the tension in the air draining away. Future Dave had shrugged and plopped down on the end of the bed, next to your feet, and you’d made no move to stop him. What came next was exactly what you’d feared and hoped this was all about. 

“So, here's the straight dope direct from the boys and gals at the top-secret Strider feelings research facility...you know as well as I do that we’ve been having some, uh, confusing feelings lately.” 

You’d nodded. There was little point in denying the fact you’d woken up breathless and sweaty after god-knows how many dreams about Karkat and had caught yourself staring at him on a number of occasions. At least your shades meant he hadn't noticed. 

The thing was, you weren't gay. You knew it as sure as you knew capes were awesome and the Mayor was your best fucking friend. It was just teenage hormones fucking you over, making you hyper-focused on the way Karkat's lips pursed when he was pissed off and the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he laughed. If you’d been spending all of your time with TZ instead it’d be her grey hands you’d be dreaming of, grabbing onto your hair and pulling you down until your mouths smashed together. 

“Well, we decided, or I decided I guess, but you will too in the future so let's stick with we...that we needed to find out. Science it up with labcoats and clipboards until we solve for x and prove whether or not we actually...want to...y’know.” 

“No offense,” you’d replied, “but that seems like a fucking pointless excuse for an experiment. I don't want to “y’know” with a dude, especially not a dude with the biggest anger-management issues in the whole of paradox space. In case you forgot, we’re not fucking gay. We both know how many times we've had late-night, r-rated jam sessions over the idea of making out with Jade. Or, like, any number of random celebrity chicks.” 

You don't say it out loud, but both of you knew that Rose had crept in there a few times too, even after you learned she was your sister. It’s not your fault your family genes apparently only code for slammin’ hotties. Hot girls were what you were supposed to bang one out to, and a little bit of shared genetics didn't mean squat in fantasy jerkoff space. In the back of your mind, a little voice you knew was an echo of Bro’s had muttered “damn straight” and you'd almost flinched. You didn’t want to listen to that voice anymore. It hurt. 

The other you had sighed, long and weary, and pushed his shades up into his hair. He was deliberately not looking at you, and watching your own eyes dance frantically around the room had been twilight-zone levels of freaky. 

“Yeah...the thing is that I remember this happening, I know how it goes, and let's just say the results are not as...conclusive as we’d thought. It's...I think just because you like girls doesn't mean you can't also get an awkward fucking crush on a dude. It turns out it’s not that fucking easy, not that anything for us has ever been easy. At this point it feels like we've been playing on European Extreme for our entire goddamn life.” 

This whole thing was getting too existential, too weirdly personal for comfort. If this was a stable time loop, it needed to be closed. Apparently this one could only be tied up by kissing your double for a few seconds, as gross as that seemed. It didn't matter, though, it wasn't as though you would feel anything. After that you could get on with pretending none of this shit ever happened. It’d just be another tiny footnote at the end of the things you already tried not to think about 24/7. 

“Look, just get on with it and close the timeloop, OK? If you're convinced you're gonna smooch me so good I do an acrobatic fucking pirouette into the land of rainbows and buttplugs then give it your best shot. I know we’re hot but I’m pretty sure my shit is gonna remain unflipped.” 

He’d let out a little “Pfft” of air, a silent laugh that reached his eyes. It was weirdly vulnerable, watching yourself like this. Future you was vibrating with nerves as he pulled himself hesitantly up the bed toward you, eventually settling his ass down next to yours. 

“This is the most flagrant abuse of time-travel in the history of paradox space.” You said, trying to reassure him. Jokes were the way to do that, if you knew your own dumbass personality. Even if it was awkward as fuck, you could appreciate the irony of using universe-saving time powers to do something as ridiculous as kissing practice. 

“You know it. It’s lucky we’re god-knows-where in the behind-the-scenes-verse. Sloppy makeouts with your future self has gotta be a timeline-dooming offense,” he replies, grinning lopsidedly. “Just, like, remember. This isn’t about whether you want to make out with yourself because we both know we’re smokin’ hot. Try to...uh...think about Karkat.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard it out loud, the confirmation that you have a thing for your good bro Karkat, and it catches you off guard just as your double leans in and presses his lips against yours. 

It’s warm and strange and you realize other you has his eyes closed. He’s frowning as he moves his lips against yours, pressing insistently, and you guess you should probably try to do the same. For science. Closing your eyes helps because suddenly the sight of your own face isn’t distracting you from the feeling of soft warmth on you lips, the sensation equal parts nice and weird. It’s hard to imagine it’s Karkat, though, because he’s too gentle, too hesitant. You're not sure why you're indulging this stupid idea, why you're actively trying to picture Karkat's lips on yours, but if you're going to do this shit you want to do it properly. You think if Karkat _did_ kiss you, it’d be like his life depended on it. In your dreams he kisses like he’s drowning and you’re his oxygen. 

A hand slides into your hair, another into the small of your back, and you shiver a little as he pulls you toward him. Being touched this much is strange, unfamiliar. You almost want to pull away, get some distance, protect yourself, but there's no need to defend against yourself. Other Dave rubs the hair at the nape of your neck the wrong way, hand moving roughly until he’s gripping it, pulling at it, and yeah...you can try and imagine the nails digging into your scalp are yellow. The arm around you tightens, an iron bar holding you tight against his chest, and you wrap your own arms around his shoulders as he deepens the kiss. This is full-on makeout-city now, both of you darting tongues against each other’s lips. He tastes of nothing, with a faint undercurrent of mint. When he (Karkat) slides his inside your mouth, pushing into you gently but firmly, you hear yourself whimper because this is all _too much_. At least you don’t have to be embarrassed, it’s not as though future-you is ever going to tell anyone about this. 

All of this touching, this stimulation, it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before. In your old life, before the game, you can’t remember the last time someone even hugged you. On the meteor, there were people who actually wanted to touch you, wanted to comfort you and hold you and it was strange and horrible at first. First Rose, then Karkat...both of them had systematically broken your barriers, worming their way close to you and refusing to let go. 

Now (in your mind, at least), Karkat has his arms wrapped tight around you, his tongue in your mouth, his breath warm and heavy on your cheek. You whine into him, wishing you could understand why this feels good when you know for sure it should feel gross. His teeth aren’t sharp enough, his lips are too soft, but none of that matters. At some point he took off your shades, sometime before he started pushing his hand up under your shirt. You've never been this vulnerable with anyone before, but it still isn't enough. You want him to touch you, want him to do...more than just touching. 

You keep your eyes closed as you peel your shirt off, imagining the look on Karkat’s face at the sight of your skin, your freckles, the network of pale scars crisscrossing your body. He makes a weird, choked noise of surprise, and then he’s on you again, hands running all over your back and sliding up to pull hard on your hair. At some point during all of this you got hard, painfully so, and you tell yourself it’s just the overstimulation from being touched like this. It doesn’t have anything to do with the imagined hunger in Karkat’s eyes, the way he’s rubbing himself against you. Your hands slip under his shirt pushing it up so you can feel grey skin against pale, and he pulls it over his head. You hear it hit the floor somewhere in your room, and you know it’s a red cape-and-shirt combo but in your mind’s eye, it’s an oversized black sweater. 

He pushes you down, one hand planted in the centre of your chest, and as you lie back you feel a warm mouth on one of your nipples, tongue exploring you as you picture Karkat’s face transfixed with curiosity. It’s too much, too much, and you drag him bodily on top of you instead. Your heart almost fucking explodes when his crotch brushes against yours, his legs planted either side of your hips, and you hear yourself moan loud and long as he grinds his dick against yours. You’re not sure which of you made the sound. It's hard and human and you know from Karkat's movies that that isn't quite right but who cares, you dismiss that thought, keeping it at arm’s length as you grab his ass and pull him down, the friction melting your brain. This is better than picturing his hand on your dick, better even than imagining him sucking you off, because it’s real (sort of). When Karkat starts biting hard into your neck, close to the shoulder so it won’t show later, you buck upward into him with a yelp that you’re going to pretend you didn’t make. 

It’s good it’s great you could stay like this forever, the weight of Karkat pressing you down, keeping you safe, and at the same time working you up toward the biggest high you’ve ever felt. When his hand worms into your pants, grabbing your cock with just the right amount of pressure, it takes just three strokes before you lose it. Pleasure washes over you, lighting up your spine, your nerves, your skin, and you arch your back into the comforting weight above you. You don’t whimper out his name, because what kind of fucking cliche would that be? Besides, the other you now lying panting on top of you knows exactly who was filling your senses as you came like a firecracker into the fabric of your underwear. 

He stops moving, stops thrusting into the oversensitive flesh of your dick, and rolls off you to lie over to one side. One arm is still draped across your chest, but the illusion is gone and you’re acutely aware that it’s covered in your own freckles. He removes it quickly, not meeting your eyes as you look dazedly at him. He’s bright red with embarrassment, maybe because he’s just seen himself orgasm, made himself orgasm, or maybe because he now has a conclusive result for his experiment. 

Without a word, he gets up and grabs his shirt, disappearing into the timestream with a brief, shaky thumbs-up. As he turns to go, you notice a fading bruise at the juncture of his neck and collarbone. Alone in your room, you press a finger to that area of skin and wince. At most, he’s from a week in the future. Your eyelids are heavy, and as you drift off into unconsciousness lying in your own mess you realize it’s going to be an interesting week. 

In your dreams you curl tightly around someone with grey skin and small, rounded horns as if you’re never going to let go again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This can really only be described as an "existential wank". Enjoy!
> 
> Sorry for the shortness
> 
> Next chapter: 
> 
> ==>Dave: tell him already

Well, that was...fucking weird is what that was. The red glow of time travel fades as you step back into your present, fresh from having taken your own virginity (sort of, does that even fucking count or was it just superdeluxe platinum-level-perverts-only masturbation?) and still shamefully hard as a rock. You feel hot and tingly all over, the ghosts of your own hands still burning trails into your back, your ass, your shoulders. Flopping down onto your bed, you fling your shirt away somewhere for the second time this week/hour and try to focus on making your treacherous dick calm down.

Remembering the experience from both sides had been surreal, the strange feeling of looking into a mirror and also looking back out, like you could switch places with the snap of a finger. Past you had been thinking only about Karkat, as you had for the entire week that separated you from him (and oh man had that made hanging out in Can Town awkward. You think Karkat might strangle you if you ollie outie mid-conversation again), but it was...different for you. This time around, _you_ were the one in control.

Going back with the express purpose of making out with yourself had been weirdly exciting, and you'd thought about it a hell of a lot more than was probably healthy over the past week. Your brain had screamed that this was a huge fucking mistake as soon as past you had raised a skeptical eyebrow, but as soon as your lips had met...you had known it wasn't. Or, fuck, if it was, it was one you were absolutely going to make.

It was written in the timeline, after all. Might as well enjoy it.

His lips (your lips) were soft, but they had nothing on the way he melted under your touch, shivering to pieces as you pulled him close. Seeing yourself like that, utterly trusting, thoroughly giving in to the sensation of hands under his shirt, of fingers running through his hair, it had been...confusing. Voices in your head had screamed in dismay at the sight of your own face flushing red and desperate, at the frantic heat of your own breath. He was losing himself completely, overwhelmed by sensation, and _you_ were the one that was making that hapen.

The ache between your legs isn't exactly helped by the memory of brushing sweat-damp hair out of your double's eyes as you bite down on the soft skin of his neck, knowing that it feels fucking amazing to him. Your hand moves almost of its own volition, slipping down beneath layers of fabric to touch your dick gingerly, and you let out an quiet, involuntary "fuck" as you wrap your fingers around it. 

_This is wrong, what the hell are you doing, getting off on watching your own orgasm from the outside like a weirdo tugging one out in front of a mirror, to the sight of his own reflection..._

The thoughts roar at the back of your mind, but fuck, you _know_ the reason your heart is racing as your hand moves hesitantly in your underwear isn't the bizarre stereo-visuals of it all. Sure, you're hot. You know that, kinda, although part of you is disgusted by the network of scars covering your chest, the wiry tangle of underdeveloped teenage muscle your childhood turned you into. But, to be honest, even if you looked like the ectobaby of Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling you aren't about to blow your load every time you glance at a reflective surface. 

Your hand moves faster, grips tighter, your breaths turning shallow even as your chest fills with a sick kind of pride. The memory of moans in your ear fills you, and you almost want to cry, because... _you_ did that. For the first time in your fucking existence you managed to give another person something _good_ , something real and honest and free from the dozen pass-the-parcel layers of irony that obfuscated every other affectionate gesture you've ever made. You'd made him feel good, feel incredible, feel more emotion and sensation in a few minutes than he'd ever felt in his (your) miserable touch-starved life. You shudder, a whole-body vibration as you make yourself feel good all over again, thumbing at your oversensitive places as silent tears escape from the corners of your eyes.

_You're not a weapon, not a hollow half-shell of a person who exists only to weild a sword, to protect the ones who actually know how to love...how to be human..._

Gasping breaths and white-hot pleasure fill your senses, and you arch into the orgasm like a fucking cliche as your bare feet scrabble agaist the sheets. 

_You *are* human, fuck every instinct that tells you not to give in, not to break, not to show weakness. You can do it. You can. Fuck the voice that screams that real men don't let their guard down, not even for the kindest, funniest, most unexpectedly sweet person in existence._

You can do this. 

Your muscles unwind slowly, letting you sink into the mattress with a brain full of swirling endorphins. Rolling your head to either side, you erase the shameful tracks of tears, because crying while jerking off is probably too much emotional vulnerability for one lifetime. Forgetting that ever happened is definitely going to be a thing. But, you think, maybe, that it wouldn't kill you to let someone see you without your shield in place. It wouldn't kill you to talk about your feelings like you know he wants you to.

Maybe it wouldn't kill you to tell Karkat how you feel.

After you have a fucking shower, of course.


End file.
